


we know not what we may be

by sometimeseffable



Category: Star Wars - All Media Types, Star Wars: Rebels
Genre: Gen, PTSD, Post-Episode: s03e21-22 Zero Hour, mentions of torture
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-04-06
Updated: 2019-04-06
Packaged: 2020-01-05 17:37:35
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,932
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18370850
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sometimeseffable/pseuds/sometimeseffable
Summary: After the events of Zero Hour, Alexsandr Kallus struggles to find a place in the Rebellion.





	we know not what we may be

One by one, the Rebels in the hallways by the bridge filed out. Syndulla, Wren, and Garazeb remained inside plotting their next move, and Jarrus had presumably gone to find Bridger in the chaos. The last survivor straggled away towards the cargo hold where there was a makeshift medical station set up.

_ I suppose I’m...one of them now. _

Kallus shook his head. No, that line of thinking wouldn’t do. He might be a rebel, but many on the ship still considered him an enemy. The wide berth of space, the distrusting stares, the dirty looks thrown his way once they’d left the battle behind had all said enough.

Jarrus had been kind when he’d thanked him moments before, and Garazeb at least held the vague possibility of a friendly face, but outside of those two, there was little hope for empathy.

Kallus was alone.

Even so, he kept his arms crossed over his chest, guarded. Despite having defected nearly a year prior, he’d never had to stray far from Imperial territory to do his work as Fulcrum. It had been comforting, in an odd way. Even as he found himself more and more disgusted with the Empire, Kallus had been assured by the familiar protocols of the only life he’d ever known.

Now here he was, in the midst of the rebel ship he’d hunted across the galaxy so long ago, surrounded by people who might still want him dead even if he  _ had  _ officially defected. With his bridges in the Empire well and truly burned, future in this little resistance movement uncertain, he belonged no where.

It was a tiny bit daunting.

Kallus needed something to do. Idle hands didn’t sit well with Imperial minds, especially not when one was still trying to wrap their head around the situation at hand. He was injured, he knew, but that could wait. He’d had worse (although the black spots dancing in his vision as he pushed off the wall disagreed) and the thought of using what was surely a dwindling supply of bacta seemed...presumptuous. Besides, it would be best if he stayed away from the cargo hold.

Although, the thought of bacta did spark an idea. Stumbling back down to the escape pod took more effort than he’d like. Besides the physical wounds, Kallus recognized the beginning of withdrawal. Symptoms from the interrogator droid’s potent drug from Bridger’s tower - nausea, cold sweats, racing pulse, the vague feeling his heart was about to burst out of his chest - were only going to get worse. Coming down was not going to be pleasant, but then, it couldn’t be worse than the droid itself. Kallus shuddered at the memory.

In the pod, he scavenged the emergency kit, ration box, fusion furnace, and medical supplies before assessing what else could be of use. The pod’s comms, perhaps, although those ran the risk of catching Imperial frequencies. The outside of the hull could be stripped for scrap metal used in rough repairs. Fuel could be siphoned from the bottom port, and if the rebels were willing to loan him a fuel carton, he could -

“Kallus?”

He flinched, whirling to face the pod’s small hatch. Captain Syndulla frowned at him, wary. As she had every right to be.

“You know if you jettison the pod now, you’ll die in hyperspace, right?” she asked, hard, unyielding, and just this side of sarcastic. If Kallus thought she was formidable as an enemy, Syndulla downright unnerved him as someone who had an unquestionable upper hand. He suddenly realized how incriminating scrambling around a pod hooked up to Imperial communications must look.

“I was removing any vital supplies you may need before releasing it, which I suggest you do at the next jump. It is hard for the Empire to track an escape pod, but not impossible.” Kallus nudged the small pile, hoping it conveyed his sincerity. He could see Syndulla calculating the risk of taking him at his word. Gesturing towards the med kit, Kallus added, “I...noticed the injured gathered in the cargo hold. There should be enough bacta in there for four or five people, depending on severity.”

A sudden shudder wracked his body. His vision must have blurred, for the next thing he knew Syndulla was right in front of him. He realized she’d asked him something, concern softening her cold demeanor.

“I’m sorry?”

“Have you seen a medic yet?” she demanded, far too close for comfort.

_ Yet _ . As if Kallus ever intended to waste their limited medical supplies on himself. “I am fine.”

She hummed in dissent. Eyes roamed up and down his body - no doubt she noticed the shallow breaths, the way he clutched at his left side, the slight shift in weight over his good leg - and he barely kept from squirming under her scrutiny. 

“At the very least, we should get something cold on that eye.” Kallus startled as she grasped his chin with two fingers, gently turning his head side to side. “Should check for concussion too.”

He jerked his head to dislodge her fingers and unconsciously licked the cut on his lip. Maker, but Imperials didn’t  _ touch  _ each other unless there was an ulterior motive. What game was she playing?

“I will be alright.”  _ You shouldn’t waste time on me, I don’t deserve it, please - _

Syndulla seemed to catch on, for the look she gave him was severely unimpressed. “Uh huh. And I guess you’re favoring your left side because your ribs  _ aren’t  _ broken, yeah?”

“No, they’re - “ Kallus hissed as Syndulla pressed a firm hand against his ribs, igniting a fire that lanced through his chest with each breath. “ - fine,” he gasped. He hadn’t been prepared for all this... _ manhandling.  _ Fierfek. He’d known the rebels were close, but clearly they’d grown beyond personal boundaries of any kind.

“Mhmm. Come on, let’s patch you up.”

Kallus hesitated as she stepped out the hatch. “Captain Syndulla, I assure you I can handle - “

“Look,” Syndulla stopped in front of him, “I may not trust you yet, Kallus, but the fact remains that you are on  _ my  _ ship, and I take the wellbeing of my crew very seriously. Please don’t insult me by thinking otherwise.

Shame burned his cheeks. Barely ten minutes onboard, and he’d already managed to offend the captain. He ducked his head. “My apologies.”

Syndulla helped him climb out of the pod and led him to what appeared to be a small storage room, free of any other beings. Kallus barely refrained from sighing in relief. He didn’t think he could take anyone else’s pity, or their loathing. He had plenty of both himself.

Kallus gently lowered himself to sit on a crate as Syndulla cracked open the med kit, handing over a cooling pack. Despite that the drug in his system made the cold bite and burn, it eased the throbbing in his eye by a considerable margin. A protest built and died in his throat as she retrieved a tube of bacta; it was clear she would brook no argument, but that didn’t lessen his guilt.

He tensed as Syndulla advanced on him with a finger of the salve. Kallus forced his shoulders down from his ears.  _ You’ve hunted her family to the ends of the galaxy. You can suffer this for her.  _

An uncomfortable silence dominated as she tended first to the cut on his forehead. Kallus began to wonder how long this truce would extend.

Syndulla bent to dab bacta on his bruised chin. “Give me one reason to think you might betray us,” she murmured, calm and low and terrifying, and Kallus became very aware of the depth to which he was at her mercy, “And I will space you faster than you can call up any reinforcements. Are we clear?”

Kallus wanted to point out that going back to the Empire was futile at this point, and that any reinforcements would kill him as well, but he knew that wasn’t enough. Words meant nothing after a lifetime of atrocity. He would have to prove his worth through action.

So he nodded. “Yes, Captain Syndulla.”

She capped the bacta and motioned for him to remove the curaisse. “I’m glad we understand each other. Now then, do you have a name?”

Kallus paused at the clasps under his armpit, shoulder protesting the motion from arms being torqued above his head not hours before. “Kallus.”

Had she been concussed too? He was certainly in no position to run an injury diagnostic on her, but perhaps if he could find Jarrus -

That made Syndulla give him a wry grin. “A first name,” she clarified, “it’s only polite since we appear to be on the same side for now. What do your friends call you?”

Friends? He couldn’t even remember the last time a fellow  _ officer  _ uttered his given name, much less an...acquaintance. 

“I don’t have friends,” Kallus blurted. He cringed as soon as the words left his mouth; without the cold, confident tone he affected, the words sounded...desperate. Pitiful.

Syndulla was clearly taken aback, so Kallus hastily added, “My first name is Alexsandr, if that will satisfy the question.

She nodded, then stuck out her hand. “Well then, it’s nice to officially meet you, Alexsandr. I’m Hera.”

He eyed the proffered hand warily, confused. “Yes, I know. We have been exchanging transmissions for four months.”

“The Empire never gave you a sense of humor I see.” Syndulla - he had not earned the right to address her as anything but - rolled her eyes. “Come on, shirt off.”

Kallus froze. Brief levity aside, the two locked eyes for a moment, a battle of wills. Kallus, guarded and wary still at the idea of vulnerability to a previous enemy, against Syndulla, firm in her morals that required her, as captain, to ensure someone on her ship wasn’t about to keel over from internal bleeding. Finally, Kallus relented with a sigh, too tired to argue.

Shoulders screamed at having to pull his uniform over his head. Syndulla hissed as the mottling of bruises down his chest and back were revealed. Kallus itched to put his armor back on, even if it compressed his chest in a way that made his ribs  _ ache.  _

“It’s - “

“If you say fine one more time, I’ll get Chopper to tape your mouth shut.”

Kallus’ jaw clicked shut as Syndulla placed a large bacta patch over the deep purple bruise where two fractured ribs were desperate to be known. Several others must have been cracked, and it took all his remaining willpower not to gasp even as gentle fingers grazed his feverish, oversensitive skin. The ISB would be overjoyed to learn their IT-O unit worked so well.

Winding the bandages around the patch was perfect agony. Kallus choked down the embarrassing whimpers as they put pressure on his ribs.

With one last strip of tape (thank the  _ Maker _ ), Syndulla mock dusted her hands. “All set. I assume you can finish the rest yourself?”

“Yes. I...thank you, Captain.” Kallus paused, feeling the need to push, “You didn’t have to do that.”

“Yes, I did,” Syndulla said as she stood, “Rule number one on the  _ Ghost _ : we take care of our own. Remember that.” Their eyes met, and it startled him to realize she included him in her definition of  _ ‘our own’ _ . Unsure of what to say, Kallus simply inclined his head. Syndulla pressed the control to the door.

“We could use your help coordinating hyperspace jumps. Report to the bridge when you’re ready.” She paused at the door, throwing him an odd half-smile. “Welcome to the Rebellion, Alexsandr.” 

**Author's Note:**

> I read one (1) fic about Kallus and immediately liked this mutton-chopped trash boy despite only having seen limited amounts of Rebels. I loved his character arc, HOWEVER, I think they could have done a better job of...idk, making the change more convincing? Anyway. Here we are.


End file.
